But the horse had erred.
It had been the right that had supposedly been injured.
Colin grinned.
“Think he’ll be all right, Dr. Lord?”
Colin turned his back on the horse, and passed the mare as she perked up her ears and swung her rump toward the stallion in saucy invitation.
“Aye, my lady. I’m sure of it.”
# # #
The ceiling was thickly beamed and ancient, the walls painted in shades of oxblood and hung with prints of foxhunts and racehorses. Laughter came from a group of locals near the hearth, but the two travelers preferred instead to take seats beside the window where Ariadne could keep an eye on her horse. There, they lunched on steak and mushroom pie, thick, crusty bread, cheese, and a flagon of rich, foamy ale. Or rather, Ariadne did. Halfway through the meal, she noticed her companion’s appetite had not led him to touch the beef.
She stared at him in puzzlement. “Is the pie not to your liking, Doctor?”
He offered a rather sheepish smile. “I do not eat meat.”
“Why not?”
“It’s animal flesh. I . . . I just can’t. Not anymore.”
She frowned a bit, studying him. Then she put down her fork and knife, propped her chin atop the heel of one hand, and stared long and hard at him. “You are a very unusual man, Dr. Lord.”
He shrugged, broke off a piece of cheese, and ate it, grinning at her all the while.
Her gaze went to his unfinished glass of ale. “I see you don’t drink much, either. What sort of an Englishman are you, anyhow?”
“A sober one.”
“Indeed.”
“My tolerance for alcohol is remarkably low,” he added.
“Really? Mine’s not. Hand me your glass, Dr. Lord. Better yet, be a gentleman and order me another.”
She swept up his glass, shot him a challenging glance, and raised the drink high. “To . . . friendship.”
“Aye.” He picked up his cheese and smiled. “To friendship.”
She laughed, and downed the ale in three unladylike gulps. Their gazes met, and she blushed prettily. “You know, Dr. Lord . . . I’m really enjoying your company. I take back my earlier words, about wishing I hadn’t hired you to be my veterinarian. I’m very glad that I did, even if you can’t figure out why Shareb is lame. Now, if you don’t want it, may I have your beef?”
He looked at her, one brow raised, and she grinned in embarrassment.
“Well, if I’m to dress like a man, I might as well eat like one.”
# # #
Three miles ahead of them, Tristan, Lord Weybourne, sat in a similar public house, nursing a cider and staring gloomily into the clear, amber depths of his glass. He, too, had positioned himself near a window, where he could watch the traffic passing on the Norfolk Road and be on the lookout for the bay stallion.
The bay stallion.
All that stood between him and total ruin. And all that carried Ariadne to a nightmare she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
His mind wandered back over the years, to the time when Father had brought him to see his first race. He had never forgotten the thrill of seeing those mighty steeds galloping toward the finish line, thundering past with such force that he could feel the vibrations rocking his chest while the crowd went wild with excitement around him. Maybe the fever had started then—Papa certainly must’ve seen it, for he’d turned, looked steadily into his eyes, and warned him about the allure of the racetrack. But he hadn’t listened, of course. After all, he, Tristan, had picked the winner of three out of four of those races. He had a talent. What did Father know, anyhow?
And as he grew older, spending his mornings observing the Norfolk Thoroughbreds galloping around his father’s pastures, and his weekend afternoons stealing off to the races at Newmarket, it came to him that such a talent should not go to waste.
Age and maturity had not cooled the fever. He had found friends to share his interest, older, equally high-bred friends who didn’t mind that he was the youngest of the lot. After all, he was the future Lord Weybourne. He was bored, he was titled, and he knew horses. And the races! He would win some, lose some, win a little more, gamble a lot. And the fever had spread—to the gaming tables, to the boxing matches, to the cockfights. He couldn’t remember when it had begun to worry him. Maybe when he’d begun to realize that he was losing more than he was winning. When he knew he was in trouble.
And still, he could not stop.
Too proud, too ashamed to confess his dilemma to his father, he had gone to Clive Maxwell for help . . . again . . . and again.
And now he was in over his head.
He should’ve listened to Father, dear, wise Father, who had spent his life developing a horse that could outrun anything but the wind. His father had known more about racehorses than Tristan would ever know. Oh, how foolish he’d been! If only he’d gone to him before the debts had mounted, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe his father would still be alive; maybe Ariadne wouldn’t be on the run with the last of the Norfolk Thoroughbreds; and maybe he wouldn’t have a death threat hanging over his head.
He put his hands over his face, remembering his father’s horror when he’d told him about Clive, and just how evil the man really was. And now Ariadne was involved, and heading for her own demise as surely as he had engineered his own.
God help him, he had to stop her. It was too late to save himself—but not his sister.
Picking up his cider, he gazed bleakly out the window, scanning the passing horses for Shareb-er-rehh’s glossy bay coat. A damned common color, even if the horse himself was uniquely spectacular. But in the past quarter of an hour, no less than seventeen bay horses had passed, three in the last two minutes alone. One had been a smart, glossy-coated hack. Not Shareb-er-rehh. Another had been a stout Shetland pony hitched to a cart, with an old farmer at its head. Not Shareb-er-rehh. The most recent was a rangy, deep-chested, high stepping carriage horse with bandaged legs and a light blanket over its back, pulling a chaise with a man and his young son in it.
Definitely not Shareb-er-rehh.
Swearing in frustration and rising anxiety, Lord Weybourne put his head in his hands and ordered another cider.
# # #
Tristan was not the only one reflecting on the past, and thinking about his late father.
Some miles away, his sister was doing much the same thing.
They had been back in the chaise for an hour now, and the late afternoon sun slanted down through the trees and dappled Shareb-er-rehh’s glossy rump as they trotted along the Norfolk Road. Sweeping green hills bright with crops climbed away to the right and opposite, fenced pastures dotted with sheep and cows met the eye for as far as it could see, until the horizon finally dropped handfuls of clouds upon the distant rises.
It was easy, with the sun slanting down and her belly full, to let her mind drift, to daydream, to think of days and times past. . . .
To remember a day when she was eight, maybe nine years old, lonely, bored, missing her mama, who had died some months before. Her nanny was a cold, detached woman, and she didn’t see much of her father, who always seemed to be wrapped up with horses, and grooming Tristan to take over someday . . . which meant she didn’t see much of Tristan, either. There was nobody else in the nursery to play with, and Nanny always had her nose in a book, leaving her to her own devices.
The loneliness had been intense.
When Father had come in that evening from the stables, she had gone to him and begged him to play a game with her, and he had smiled rather distractedly and promised that he would, after he had dined. But he had broken that promise, claiming that he was too tired by the time he had finished his meal, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he always was, because he had not been a young man when his two children had been born, and the energy that might have been his as a youth, was certainly not there as a widowed man in his late fifties with two young children who were both starved for his affections.
> Yes, he had broken his promise to play a game with her. It had been one of many promises to spend time with her that he had broken, and eventually, Ariadne realized that asking or even begging for his attention would never get it.
But behaving badly, would.
Behaving badly, as she had done when she had mounted one of Father’s prized horses during an afternoon soiree and, in a reckless attempt to prove to him that she, like Tristan, could be a part of his world, gone tearing across the front garden in front of all the guests. But all that had resulted from that mad escapade was a flower bed shot through with hoofprints, horrified guests—and a father that had been so embarrassed that she’d seen even less of him.
Behaving badly, as she had done on the day she had turned sixteen. Father had thrown a party for her, invited all the neighbors—and had then forgotten to show up. Her hurt and humiliation had been such that she’d had a little too much wine, grown a little bit too loud, and caught the attention of Sir Thomas Dovecote’s eldest son (not to mention Sir Thomas Dovecote, himself), which had resulted in Father’s pained disapproval.
Behaving badly, showing just a little too much ankle during those balls and soirees of her first season, and reveling in the newly-discovered fact that, while Father might never had had time for her—indeed, nobody did—such was not the case with the young men who had begun to swarm around her, hanging on her every word, filling her dance card, competing for her notice, and willing, all too willing, to give her that which her father had never had time to give her.
Attention.
It was heady, exhilarating, and a drug she could not get enough of.
Outrageous flirtation had netted her not only the attention of titled and rich suitors, it had also netted her—finally—the attention of her father.
But even that had blown up in her face, for all that had come of it was a hastily arranged marriage to a man she barely knew, a man who was twenty years her senior, a man who was as wrapped up in horses as Father had been. “Maxwell has a firm hand, and maybe he can control you when I cannot,” Father had explained, distractedly. “Besides, he has more interest in carrying on the legacy of the Norfolk Thoroughbred than you and Tristan combined. You will marry him.”
Behaving badly. . . .
It had not done her any favors then, and it probably wouldn’t do her any favors now, but beside her, Colin Lord had grown quiet, lost in his own thoughts, and Ariadne was becoming increasingly restless.
And, bored.
She wondered what his reaction would be if she behaved just a little bit . . . badly.
“Really, Dr. Lord . . . I think that if one has to work, they should have a job like yours. Your day must be so very interesting, treating sick animals and saving their lives. I mean, all you had to do was touch Shareb’s leg, and the limp went away, just like that! I think you are wonderful.”
He shrugged. “Your praise is appreciated, but I did nothing to heal your horse’s lameness.”
“Do you think it was the bandage, then? The weights?”
“No, I think you have a confoundedly smart horse who has no desire to pull a chaise.”
“You mean, the lameness was all an act?”
“Aye, and a very good one, at that. Even had me fooled—til he forgot which foot was supposed to hurt.”
“Oh, no, Shareb would never do something deceitful like that! He’s an angel.”
“Yes, and so was Lucifer.”
“Dr. Lord, really. I would expect you to exhibit more loyalty and respect toward your patient! And to compare my sweet and innocent horse to the Devil . . . That is unkind.” She raised her voice and called, “Isn’t it, Shareb?”
As if in agreement, the stallion tossed his head.
They continued on for another quarter mile, and the doctor’s reluctance to be drawn into a conversation about Maxwell, combined with her full stomach and an overindulgence of ale at the coaching inn, began to weigh on Ariadne’s eyelids. She looked up at him, wondering what he had really done to cure Shareb’s poor, hurt leg. Surely, he must have worked some sort of magic. First the dog, then Shareb. . . .
And that shoulder of his, so very close to her own, was looking pleasantly inviting.
Lud, she was as drawn to him as animals seemed to be. But why? He was an uncommonly handsome man, her animal doctor, but she could have had her pick of handsome men before Father betrothed her to Maxwell, and none of them had made her heart beat just a little bit faster in her chest, as this man did.
“Dr. Lord?”
“I am beginning to dread that tone of voice. . . .”
“I think I ate and drank too much back there, as I am just getting so-o-o-o sleepy. . . .” She yawned prettily, and eyed that safe, solid shoulder. “Perhaps if you tell me about what your own horse was like, it will help me to stay awake. Was he as special to you as Shareb is to me?”
A shadow darkened the veterinarian’s eyes, and he smiled wistfully. “Yes. He was . . . very special.”
Ariadne said nothing, trying to keep her heavy eyes open and her mind off his shoulder. She wondered very much if he would mind if she leaned against it and went to sleep.
“What was his name?”
“Ned.”
“Ned. What a gentle, simple name.” She yawned, again. “I’ll bet he was much better suited to pull this chaise than my Shareb is.”
“Yes, I’m afraid he was. Much easier on my arms and shoulders.”
“Is Shareb still pulling?”
“Pulling?” The veterinarian grinned. “I’m beginning to suspect this animal is not a riding animal, but a plow horse. He is devilishly strong and hard on the bit.”
She tightened her hands in her lap, grateful that he hadn’t hit upon the truth of what Shareb really was. Especially, since they’d taken the weights out of the bandages and Shareb’s stride had returned to the long, fluid trot that was putting the miles behind them with tell-tale speediness. She figured their secret was still safe, though.
That is, as long as the doctor never saw him in a full gallop. . . .
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you want me to drive for a while? I promise to try harder this time to control him.”
“No. I’m fine, really. Sit back and enjoy the scenery.”
She tried, but could not, for the scenery that was two inches from her body was far more interesting than that of the surrounding countryside. Emboldened by the ale, feeling liberated without her identity and the clothes that would have proclaimed it, she gazed up at her companion’s face, the sweep of sunlit hair that fell over his forehead, the shape of his nose and the intent keenness of his eye. Though he was a commoner, his profile was nothing short of aristocratic.
“Dr. Lord?” The motion of Shareb’s powerful trot jouncing the chaise was making her all the more sleepy.
“Yes?”
“I think I should not have had so much ale.”
He looked down at her, suddenly concerned. “Are you ill?”
“No, merely tired. I mean, I usually do take a nap in the afternoon, because I keep very late hours—Town hours, you know—but between this sunshine, the motion of the chaise, a decided lack of sleep and now, the ale . . . well, I hope you can forgive me if I am not quite awake.”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“Even if I use your shoulder as a pillow?”
He just turned and looked at her with that flat, indiscernible stare that said more than a thousand words.
“I know, it is most inappropriate . . . but there is no place in this little vehicle in which to lay down, and I am so very sleepy.”
“We could stop at an inn, if you like.”
“No, no, we shall do that tonight. I want to put London—and my brother—well behind us. Besides—” she covered her mouth, trying to keep her yawn to ladylike proportions— “that’s not what I asked you. I asked if you’d mind.”
“Not at all,” he said, a bit tightly.
She smiled her thanks, curled her arm around Bow, a
nd carefully lowered her cheek to the veterinarian’s shoulder. He stiffened, the muscles beneath bunching with tension, but there was no place for him to move, nowhere for him to go, nothing he could say or do, really, that wouldn’t make him look petty and ungentlemanly. He had taken off his coat, and his shirt smelled of soap and clean wind. Ariadne closed her eyes in contentment. But her face had no sooner touched the soft fabric when the chaise hit a bump, painfully smashing her teeth together. She tried again, settling her cheek against the hard muscle and closing her eyes. Ahhhh. . . . She smiled, and sighed . . .
And began to sink into slumber.
The chaise hit a rut and her cheek slipped from his shoulder. Blinking in annoyance, she stared gloomily ahead, growing more perturbed by the moment.
And then the doctor’s arm went around her shoulders, pulling her close to his body and coaxing her head down into the cup of his shoulder. Ariadne closed her eyes, feeling his warmth and strength surrounding her, hearing his heart beating beneath her ear, knowing that he would keep her safe while she slept and never let anything happen to her.
Suddenly, all was right in the world.
She felt her body twitch, grow heavy. And then, with a sigh, she smiled against his shirt, rested her hand against his knee, and went to sleep.
# # #
The traffic had thinned out the further they got from London, and they passed nothing more than a team of draft horses that Shareb ignored, a fast-trotting mare who elicited enough of the stallion’s interest that Colin had to touch him with the whip to keep his mind on business, and an old shepherd who, with the help of a faithful dog, was bringing home his flock for the evening. The sunlight was rusty, the shadows long and reaching by the time Colin finally decided to start looking for a place to spend the night.
His employer was still asleep, her cheek nestled in the cup of his shoulder, her little hand lying innocently across his knee. For the hundredth time in the last hour, he looked down at her, and felt his heart skip a beat.
She fit within the circle of his arm as though she’d been made to it. Her cap was perched loosely on her coppery hair, and she smelled sweet and warm. She did not snore. She did not twitch. She merely lay there against him, soft and lovely and painfully beautiful.
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